


then we shall need each other

by tsunderestorm



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7195181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bucky returns to Steve, just not in the way he'd expected.</p><p>or,</p><p>The Winter Soldier got sent back in time to kill Steve before he became Captain America, but then he couldn't do it. Steve is left with a moody, sullen, assassin boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	then we shall need each other

**Author's Note:**

> _You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed._

Steve has an assassin living in their apartment.

Or rather, the apartment he had shared with Bucky. His Bucky.

Well. He supposes this Bucky is still _his_ Bucky. It's hard to decipher, sometimes, with what few clipped phrases he can get out of the Soldier's mouth how much he remembers, how much he feels. Most days, he's a stoic, silent presence in the corner of the living room, always sitting on the same couch cushion, his chosen vantage point. Not quite living, but not intruding. Steve likes him there even if he hasn't the faintest goddamn clue why or how he's there. Something about changing the future by changing the past, something about the wings of a butterfly and a hurricane, something about a man called _Captain America_.

In a way, it's just like Bucky before, only now it's Bucky after. After what, Steve doesn't know. The Soldier doesn't like chairs, doesn't like needles, and when a power line goes down during the worst storm of spring's defeat at the hands of summer, he'd stared at the sizzling, crackling live wire with something like terror in his eyes. Steve is pretty sure that was when he'd decided to turn down the experimental offer the strange German scientist had offered him. Protecting his country seemed important, once. Protecting this fragile shell of Bucky Barnes seemed more so.

Some things are the same. His eyes, cool grey and sharp, like the freshly honed edge of Bucky's switchblade he'd bought when he turned sixteen _(just in case,_ he'd said, flicking it open and closed and scaring Steve half to death) and his hands: protector's hands, big and warm and soothing. Sure, they seem a little more accustomed to holding the hilt of a knife or cleaning the barrel of a gun than squeezing Steve's in the back of dark movie theatersbut Steve likes him nonetheless. Watching Steve sketch on the couch cushion next to him, slowly pulling out a small knife and sharpening his pencils when they dull after hours of drawing.

Most aren't. The Winter Soldier doesn't talk much. Mostly, he kisses and touches, letting actions speak louder than words.

Harsh; sharp teeth and hot tongue, painful in its unyielding ferocity but beautiful in its pauses, the eye of a storm. Hungry and demanding, a force of nature that even Steve couldn't stand up to. He gives himself to him the same way he'd given himself to the Bucky of before, the Bucky of 1934, wide smiles and irresistible dimples and the barest hint of of a beard on his handsome jaw. The same way he'd give himself to Bucky one hundred times over in a hundred different years if he thought there was ever a chance his shaky lungs and bad heart would carry him through that long. He is not gentle like his Bucky. He doesn't laugh when Steve's voice cracks and he doesn't scoop him up and hold him, cradling his bad back in a perfect arch, but he's not rough either. Steve thinks _I'm spreading my legs for an assassin sent back in time to kill me_ and the thought is so ludicrous he coughs into the Soldier's ( _Bucky's_ ) neck as he thrusts in hard.

A soft one; pressed to the corner of Steve's mouth. The Soldier tastes like nothing; clinical and sterile, carrying the faintest smell of leather. Quick one, clipped and distracted as he reaches behind the door Steve's just closed behind him and slips the deadbolt. Deeper, as he pins him against it. Steve's not sure if it's _welcome home_ or _mine, all mine_ but he figures he's fine with either. Sometimes, a kiss he can't decipher, one that's accompanied by something that flickers in his eyes. Stormy sky eyes, Steve had called them. He could never get the color right when he'd painted. Sure, cheap paint had been half the problem, but most of it was that there was no combination of colors in the world that could accurately convey Bucky's beauty and no palette big enough to hold all at once the colors Steve saw in the world when Bucky was in it.

“Steve,” he says n the bathroom, voice cracking, mouth dry. “My -” Steve pauses, waits, holds a breath it hurts to hold. He's been several things to this Bucky; _boyfriendlover_ _ **mission**_ _dollangel_ **Steve,** and he never knows what he'll get.

“My Steve,” the Soldier says, perched on the edge of their bathtub as he looks down at Steve. Steve wonders what he's thinking – would he like to join him, as his Bucky had? Before the bombing, before the draft, before the war and letters Steve had written that Bucky had never been able to (and _will_ never, he supposes) respond to? Steve's skinny legs cradling Bucky's hips, knobby knees peeking out of the water. Bucky had cupped his hands, dripped warm water on them and kissed them – so simple yet so erotic. He wonders if the Soldier would strip down and slide into lukewarm water with him, wash his hair like Bucky had. Or was he he thinking about killing him? There are multiple ways, Steve knows. The Soldier could kill him with his bare hands – hold him under until the kicking stopped, bash his head against the stained porcelain tub, slit his throat in one quick motion. He supposes he should be scared.

“Bucky,” Steve says, reaching out tentatively, water dripping off of his long fingers and leaving dark drops on Bucky's black pants when he places a palm on his knee. “My Bucky.”

Because he is. He's still his Bucky, just a different version. Colder, more calculating, but still undeniably his. Steve wakes up in the night, and in the small slivers of silver moonlight sneaking through the blinds he sees him in the corner, perfectly still, perfectly silent. Staring. Watching, waiting. Looking at Steve with an expression he can't decipher, hair in his face in a way the old Bucky never would have stood for. Something like hunger, or longing, or pity. Something like a combination of all three, and thousands more.

Steve turns away, draws his knees up and curls his body around the pillow that Bucky had always liked to use, his back to the other heartbeat in the room, hammering so loud Steve wonders if it can drown out his own. Half hoping he'll remember the way they used to sleep and curl around him, half terrified of the same thing. “How long will you stay?”

This Bucky is always so tense. So on edge, peeking out the blinds (shut, now – always), checking the locks, stalking around the small apartment like he's looking for weaknesses. He jumps at small noises and flings knives at shadows. He's terrified of something, and Steve wants to protect him. It's the least he can do.

Ha. Protect him, like this Soldier needs it. He knows far more than Steve ever will, has lived through decades of history and traveled back through it all. He has more knives in his pockets than Steve has in his kitchen and a duffel bag of guns under the bed, semi-automatic rifles the likes of which the US Army probably hasn't even invented yet. He needs as much protection as a predator needs from its prey.

“I can't go back,” he whispers as he curls against Steve's back, naked fingers and glove-covered palms rubbing the hollow of Steve's hipbone as he lays on his side. “They'll kill me. I didn't finish my mission.” This Bucky feels different; bigger, stronger, harder, curling around Steve even closer than the Bucky of before had been able to. His fingers can wrap around Steve's frail wrists and overlap, his body can cover Steve's completely, his height makes Steve feel even smaller than his five feet and six inches.

Steve moves slowly, letting his hand rest on top of Bucky's and squeeze. He's shaking. He looks down in the darkness and sees his hand, so small on top of Bucky's it makes it look like a child's. Bucky's hands are so big, always have been, but now there's a power in them that makes Steve feel dizzy. In the dark, dead of the night he says the words Bucky always wanted to hear. “I need you.”

The Soldier presses a soft kiss to the back of Steve's head and exhales slowly. “I _couldn't_ finish my mission.”

“Stay,” Steve says, lacing his fingers with Bucky's and relaxing back against him, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was still holding in burning, desperate lungs.

 


End file.
